Untitled
by IzzyBells
Summary: Unsure whether I want to continue this or not, so give me feedback! Takes place between WS and CW, no CW spoilers yet. Bucky looks back at his memories, and between the gaps he remembers the woman who cared for him for a short time. Bucky-centric. Rated for mild language, possible future adult themes, and to be safe. Clueless about genre right now.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hey long time no see! This is one of many new and very unfinished stories I'll be posting over the next week or so, and I'd really love if you could give me some feedback about if this is worth continuing or not: was it intriguing, does it sound like a good start to something you'd want to read, etc. Thanks, and enjoy!**

He found her...actually, she found him. It was late November, he was in the woods. He couldn't remember where. Or maybe he did find her? No, he's pretty sure she found him. He was trying very hard not to lose control of himself, which was pretty unsuccessful; these were the early days when he was still trying to shake off HYDRA's programming. It might have been in Washington, actually. Or maybe New York? Somewhere with a busy city close by. But he was in the woods, trying to stay in control, and he thought he was alone. Then his memory lapsed.

Then she was there, and he wasn't crying in the memory, but it seemed like the kind of situation where he might have cried had he not been somewhat numb at the time. He knows she found him because she was holding him, which sounds awkward and may have looked awkward but to him in that moment, it was the most comforting thing he'd felt in a long time. She was holding him, and as she held him she murmured to him in at least three different languages, perhaps trying out each one she knew to find one he might understand. HYDRA's soldat tried to respond to the Russian she spoke, but the Bucky deeper down grabbed and held tightly to her English. It didn't even matter at that point what she was saying, just that she was saying something.

Maybe it was Chicago?

But he remembers her dark eyes and her fine nose and her soft lips moving, moving, moving, talking to him, even if he can't remember what exactly she was trying to tell or ask him. His memory lapsed again, for how long he doesn't know, but the next thing he remembers is in a dim and cozy room, scarves and fringe and beads hanging from the ceiling and the shade-covered windows, candlelight flickering and fluttering on the neutrally painted walls, the scent of jasmine and incense filling the room, the haze of the light smoke from the burning incense softening everything in sight.

Now that he's thinking about it, he isn't entirely sure he was in the US when she found him. He doesn't remember what he did after pulling Steve Rogers out of that river. Hell, he barely even remembers pulling him out of the river.

He woke up, or at least he assumes that was a point where he woke up, comfortable and warm, lying on his back on a mattress in a corner, concealed by a folding paper screen. He must have made some noise, although he's sure at this point he might have been deaf, since he can't remember any words or any sounds at all, because she filled his focus again, ducking around the screen with a cup of sweetly spicy tea, kneeling next to the pallet, next to him. For some reason, he let her help him into a sitting position, and for some reason, he let her guide the cup to his lips, and for some reason, he drank the untrustworthy-at that time-tea, and for some reason, he didn't snatch her throat with his metal hand and squeeze the life out of this unfamiliar woman, this girl, this person he most certainly couldn't have trusted at the time. He doesn't remember what he was thinking, and he doesn't know if he wants to remember. After that cup of actually very good tea, she sat behind that paper screen with him and maybe she talked to him. Maybe he talked back. Maybe they had an entire conversation that he simply can't remember, or maybe she talked to a brick wall. Honestly, he doesn't know.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So...I had more of this and decided to just post it because it ended at a pretty good place anyway. There's mild adult themes in this bit, but nothing too bad, I think. Unless anyone really likes this, I'll probably just add more whenever inspiration happens to strike me for this story, which probably won't be too often. I still don't know how to classify this genre-wise. I might just not. Enjoy!**

The rest from that point is hazy, like the atmosphere of that room. She ate with him behind the screen a few times, using chopsticks and laughing at his ineptitude with his own pair. He thinks the food tasted of curry, maybe, and sometimes he remembers syrupy citrus, and there may have been a few meals where he felt his mouth burn with ginger. He knows now, learned later, that what she did on the other side of that screen was hardly something he should have been in that room for, even if he was probably essentially a vegetable in those early days-weeks?-behind that screen.

Yes, he knows they had a conversation late one night after one of her appointments. There was sound in the later memories, like this one: it had been silent in the room for some time, save the soft rustle of silk every so often. It was dark, save for the small glow of one shaded lantern somewhere, throwing thin lines and dots of light onto the ceiling. He heard her move, more significantly than the previous, muted rustling, and he remembers vividly how she slipped behind the screen and sat on the mattress, nearly touching him. "Vivid" is an odd way to describe a memory with little to see, but maybe the darkness of his surroundings let him pick up on everything else-like the sounds.

"I cannot let you stay here," she whispered. Maybe he imagines the melancholy in her voice, or else simply misremembers, but in his mind, she was somber. "I feel not right about it, as much as I wish to help."

"Why?" he asked. Now he cringes at the question. Ignorance is bliss.

She audibly inhaled and exhaled. Perhaps she was steeling herself. "I'm whore-a whore," she admitted, carefully correcting herself. "What I do in this room...I see my clients here, in this room. I cannot let you stay here." Now he remembers her occasional English blunders with fondness: she was a Russian immigrant, she told him; she came here with her family when she was nearly ten. He also remembers the moans that drifted from the other side of the screen.

"You brought me here," he said carefully. "Why, if you knew this wasn't a good place for me?"

Her kind smile shone with gentility even in the dark. "You needed help, and I could give it."

One of the things he simultaneously loved and hated about her was the straightforward yet vague answers she gave to most questions.


End file.
